102. Better Sober & Suffering Than High & Hollow
It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it—how the chaos of addiction can feel like comfort, how the very thing that’s killing you can feel like your only friend. When I was using, there were days I felt invincible. High. Numb. Disconnected from the world and from the brokenness inside me. I had days where I laughed with people I hardly knew, turned up the music, numbed the pain, and convinced myself I was fine. But all of those days, those so-called “good” days, were built on lies. The truth is, even at its best, my using life was slowly taking everything from me.
I’ve had some pretty rough days sober. Let’s not sugarcoat it. There have been moments when the shame came crashing in so hard it nearly crushed me. Days when I sat alone, sweaty and shaking in detox, barely able to hold down water, praying for sleep that wouldn't come. Nights when I stared at the ceiling, replaying every failure, every bridge I burned, every person I hurt. There were mornings I woke up with the taste of regret in my mouth, stone-cold sober, and had to live with everything I did while I was using.
But I’ll say this with my whole heart: even the worst day I've lived in sobriety has been better than the best day I ever had in active addiction.
One of my worst sober days came just after I relapsed. I’d worked so hard to get clean—stayed in treatment, listened in groups, built up trust again, and started believing I was worthy of a better life. But one weak moment undid so much. I remember walking back into detox, head down, ashamed. I was surrounded by people detoxing just like I was, but I felt completely alone. The guilt of letting everyone down—my family, my employer, the people who rooted for me, the ones who said they believed in me—hit me like a wave I couldn’t swim through.
I laid there in the detox bed, curled up, cold sweat soaking my shirt, my body twisting against the drugs leaving my system. Every part of me ached, not just from withdrawal, but from the raw, unbearable truth: I’d betrayed myself and everyone who supported me once again.
And still, it was better than using because that pain was honest. That suffering, that storm of self-loathing and regret—it wasn’t dulled by dope. It was real. It was mine, and most importantly, it was a signal that I was still alive. Still fighting.
When I was using, I didn’t feel remorse. I didn’t feel much of anything, really. Drugs had this way of flattening life—no real highs or lows, just a constant, numbing hum. My “best” days using were spent either chasing the next fix or briefly escaping reality. Sure, I might’ve felt temporary peace when the drugs hit, but it was ALWAYS followed by fear: fear of running out, of getting caught, of being found out for the hollow shell I was becoming.
One of my so-called best days using was a sunny afternoon by a lake deep in the woods. I had just scored, had enough to get through the weekend, and I remember thinking: This is it. I’m good. No one can touch me here. I laid back, warm sun on my face, high as a kite, music in my ears. I probably posted some filtered picture on Snapchat with a fake smile, pretending I had it all together. But inside, I was empty. I didn’t think about the family I was betraying, the friends I’d lost, the job I lied to, or the self-respect I couldn’t even pretend to have anymore. That day felt "good" because I wasn't present. I wasn’t me. I was just a ghost floating through a life I was too scared to fully live.
Compare that to my worst sober day—and it’s not even close because now, even on my worst days, I’m present. I feel things—raw, painful, overwhelming things—but I feel. I cry now, not just because I’m hurting, but because I care. I care about the people I hurt, the person I want to become, and the second chance I’m still lucky enough to have. Sobriety has given me back the truth. And truth, even when it cuts like glass, is more valuable than the most euphoric high because truth is what sets me free.
On my worst day sober, I can still look someone in the eye. I can still write a page in my story that’s completely honest. I can still go to bed knowing I didn’t steal, lie, or run from myself. I might be trembling, but I’m standing. I might feel broken, but I’m clean. That matters.
Recovery isn’t romantic. It’s not all sunsets and self-help quotes. Some days, it’s getting through one minute at a time. It’s staring down a craving and saying no for the thousandth time. It’s apologizing, forgiving, breaking down, and building back up again. It’s work—harder than anything I’ve ever done. But it’s real, and real is better than anything I ever got out of a needle, a pill, or a bottle.
Today, I have a future. Maybe it’s fragile. Maybe it’s still under construction. But it’s mine. I’ve laughed, for real. I’ve hugged people and felt it. I’ve cried and let the tears come. I’ve looked in the mirror and not hated the person staring back. Those very moments—they don’t need to be “best days” to mean everything.
My worst day sober came with pain, but also with growth, accountability, and the whisper of hope still flickering somewhere inside me. My best day using? It came with silence. With numbness. With a slow, quiet death I couldn’t even recognize at the time. So yes, I’ll take the worst day of this honest, messy, beautiful sober life over the “best” day I ever had hiding from myself. Because this life, even at its lowest, is worth staying alive for.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
